Double Cross
by Garrae
Summary: He has no choice but to trust her. She has to trust in him, too. Both of them have to play their heart-breaking parts to the absolute top of their bent. If either fails, this whole charade will have been for nothing. Spoilers for 8.02.


**Double cross**

It's been six hours since Beckett walked out on him. Six hours, and he's already half-dead with terror and stress. The first hour, he'd poured back the Scotch. The second and third, he'd alternately raged at her leaving and cried for the loss of her: his emotions, as ever, on the surface, his heart on his sleeve.

He has no choice but to trust her. She has to trust in him, too.

Both of them have to play their heart-breaking parts to the absolute top of their bent. If either one of them fails, if either one of them slips for one single instant, everything will be lost, any chance of putting this to bed, and this whole charade will have been for _nothing_. They'll perish apart, and whichever – if either – of them survives will have to know that everyone believes that their love story was just another lie.

They'd cooked it up together in the one place they could be – relatively, and they're betting their lives on it – sure they wouldn't be overheard, the one place they thought they could be safe to plan.

 _No secrets_ , they had promised. Not between them. The rest of the world (with one exception) that's a different matter. And so, on Beckett finding the agent dead, she'd sent him a short text saying so. _She's dead. The woman is veritably dead._ It had contained a single innocuous word. _Veritable_ , or a variant on it. It had been his idea, after his disappearance and return. _Meet me on the swings,_ it means. _We're in deep shit_. It had been easy. Captain Beckett had sent her team off on chasing leads and told them she was going to collect him. So she had.

But in between, they'd had a very short walk. They'd looked like they were arguing. They were. Oh _god_ , they were. Beckett had told him about his stepmother and her brutal words. She'd pointed out that she couldn't bear to see him targeted, his family left bereft. He'd pointed out that he couldn't bear to see her killed, either.

They'd finally agreed that she wouldn't go down the rabbit hole alone. But then they'd _also_ agreed that it had to look as if she did. And they'd devised a plan, together. They couldn't rely on the loft being clean of eyes or ears. So it had to look real from the moment they got back there.

And finally, there was one more piece to put in place. One person that they could trust with this. Only one. Not Ryan, not Esposito. Certainly not Alexis, or Martha, or Jim. But ex-Captain Victoria Gates. It had, amazingly, been Castle's suggestion. They'd gone to see her, and taken her for a walk, ostensibly to report the death of the agent and the bad guys in the wind. But in between, they'd managed to convince her to act as their go-between.

And so the props were in place, the scene was set. Castle went home. Beckett went to supervise the investigation. At the end of the day, she returned to the loft, her heart already in pieces. Their future rests on this: but to make it work, they have to convince everybody that she'd walk out on the best thing that's ever happened to her to go chasing shadows and ghosts and dive right back into the rabbit hole that nearly destroyed her, and them, the first time round.

When Beckett comes home, Castle has no difficulty in hauling her into his arms and kissing her into complete bonelessness. They drag each other to the bedroom, and it's no lie they're showing when they strip each other and fall apart in passionate, life-affirming lovemaking, and then go for a second round in the shower. It'll be the last time for some time, they know, and the bitter knowledge adds edge to their union. Under the shower, no-one can see the tears, or hear the vows they make to each other.

No secrets. But no secrets doesn't mean no pain.

As planned, Castle dresses and starts on dinner. Beckett doesn't know what he'll make, and as she packs her small bag, her breath catching on each item, her face wholly distressed. And then she goes back out to the kitchen, and finds him making smorlettes, and her heart breaks again, and again as they begin.

They can see in each other's eyes the searing pain that this is causing. No acting required, here. The words come carrying a freighting of agony, the sight of the rings on their fingers cutting, the need to be wholly in the moment and _believe_ that this is real: that she's really walking out, that this is goodbye.

And then it's time. The last burning, weeping kiss exchanged, she tears herself away from him, his face crumpling, her face devastated, leaving the door open, though she hadn't planned that, the tears running down her cheeks, knowing that behind her he's already broken.

And now it's six hours later, and he can't sleep, tossing and turning, scared to the bone. Somewhere in Manhattan, Beckett is alone, with a target firmly on her back. Here in the loft, he's alone, with a target equally on his.

They have to trust each other. There's no other way. And they have to trust that when they give the word, Gates will send in the cavalry.

But miles apart, both of them are thinking _fuck, this hurts_. And the only thing that's making it bearable is that they're in it together.

No secrets. No lies.

 **Fin.**

* * *

 _Okay, so I didn't like it either. But I have a twisted mind. Reviews are, as ever, answered where possible and very much appreciated._


End file.
